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When she came against her own fingers, she imagined they were his.
Meeting him had provided Clara with a new fuel to burn when seeking self-pleasure. It was incinerating compared to the weak candle flames she had known before, burning white-hot, and its glow persisted for long minutes as she lay with her face pressed against the mattress, recovering.
She garnered enough energy to find her pillow again and roll over. Warm and pleasured, Clara waited for sleep to claim her once more.
Her legs shifted under the blankets. Her fingers flexed. She rolled to her side.
Blast!
Her body should have been satisfied, but with each heartbeat, pangs of awareness and deeper longing coursed through her. She willed herself to keep her eyes closed, to welcome sleep.
With clarity, the cherub-cheeked child with hazel eyes appeared again.Herchild.
Alone in her bed, with no one there to judge, Clara surrendered to what she’d fought for so long. Her yearning for a child was a gnawing ache in her womb; her arms tingled from their emptiness.
The desire wasn’t new, but she could quell it no longer. She needed a family of her own, sharing love with her children like that her parents had with her and David. She’d imagined herself a mother from the time she’d cradled her doll as a girl. It had been ephemeral, in the background, and when she became a woman of age, her repulsion for marriage outweighed the wish.
Now she allowed herself to feel, fully, the throb of longing that remained between her legs, unsatisfiable by her own hand. It intensified as she remembered the unhidden desire in Mr. Robertson’s eyes.
What would it be like to indulge in the carnality they both craved?
Clara resettled onto her back. She wasn’t only alert; the unseen bindings holding her back had fallen away—and she was planning.
I shall indulge my lust for Mr. Robertson for a reasonable period, then seek a proper husband!
Yes, once the wildness was purged, she could accept matrimonial mediocrity with a suitable husband and father to her children.
Mr. Robertson had called the men of her acquaintance and class “milksops.” As she thought of those spindly gentlemen, it was easy to imagine their disapproving faces if they saw her without her mask on or learned of her role at Violet House.
She twisted her head away, replacing those thoughts by reliving the exhilarating moment she palmed Mr. Robertson’s chest in her brother’s library.
The excitement of her decision rushed over her, and she pressed her hands to her mouth.
She would seek James Robertson and say…yes. Yes to the man who intrigued her more than any other, for whom she felt this elemental desire greater than she’d ever feel again.
Clara curled onto her side again, her hands smoothing over her breasts through her soft night rail, evoking a whimper as she remembered his forwardness.
I wouldn’t know how to pretend that I don’t want you as much as I do,he’d said.
What would it feel like to be with someone who craved her so?
Her fingers gently pinched her nipples through the ivory gown, knowing she wanted Mr. Robertson to touch her there.
Beyond a few instinctive desires, she was at a loss about what she’d do with—to—him.
This won’t do!
Mr. Robertson was daunting. Not only was he direct in speech, his experience in carnal matters exceeded hers. She couldn’t hold her own in the face of his confidence and superior knowledge.
How would she find pleasure if her nerves paralyzed her?
Stella!
There was no one better to tutor her in studying the sensual. She trusted her, including with the knowledge of the adventure that, if discovered, would be her ruin.
She realized with delight that her newfound liberty might just dissolve the strong, invisible barrier between her and Stella. Their friendship had survived its original potting, but it could blossom if it had more space.
The time had come for such a deepening—and for Clara to move forward in her life.
Her first step was an adventure with Mr. Robertson.
